Don't
by haunt-the-stars
Summary: Wally is appalled to hear Dick's comments about a male rape victim, but the issue may run deeper than he thinks. Trauma works in odd ways.


**A/N: This story will be addressing the events of Nightwing #93-97 (roughly), mostly the infamous rape of Dick. I know many, many people have written similar takes on this, mostly over in the Nightwing section, but I'm attached to the YJ section and thought I'd give it my own try. So the universe is a mash of DC comic canon and YJ; basically Wally's not dead and Dick is about 19-20.**

 **Trigger Warnings for explicit, non-graphic discussion of and allusion to rape, and non-graphic vomiting**

 **disclaimer: i own nothingnothingnothing aight**

Dick hated case reports.

He'd been writing them since he was ten, and could bang them out faster than anyone besides Batman and probably the Flash, but he still thought coming down from the adrenaline of a mission by writing everything that happened in twelve-point Times New Roman was a special kind of torture.

Still, he preferred getting them done immediately with everything fresh in his mind so that all he had to do in the following days was add new information and polish up details before he submitted it to the League. With a cup of coffee and a good playlist, it was almost bearable. His recent case was long and grueling, however, so even with both of those things he found himself begging his best friend to come keep him company at the Hall, eventually winning him over with the promise of dinner after.

And so Wally West was sitting on the edge of his desk, chewing bubble gum and swinging his legs in comfortable boredom. "What was this big case all about, anyway?"

"Serial rapist," Dick answered, scowling.

"Yikes. You got him, though?"

"Mmhm. But it wasn't pretty. There were a lot of girls...a lot younger than him...that's the worst kind of person, y'know? Makes me wish there was somewhere worse than prison." Dick was planning to put the details of this case right out of his head as soon as the report was done. He always hated rape cases. Bruce didn't let him start working on them until he was thirteen, and even then, there were nights when he couldn't sleep because of the bad taste in his mouth.

"I completely agree." Wally spit his gum in the trash, crossing his arms. "That's the only kind of case that makes me hate doing this. I mean, it's so good to help, but...man, I had one a few months ago that killed me. This guy was just a kid, really, nineteen- and it messed him up so bad. I had to ask him questions and he was just...shaking, and he had to take a semester off from school and everything. Scared his rapist was gonna find him for telling. God. Still makes me mad. The only reason I had to help was 'cause the police did jack shit, just because he was a little drunk when it happened."

"I hope the rapist gets his ass handed to him in prison," Dick said grimly.

"Her ass. And yeah, me too."

Dick blinked, fingers pausing above the keyboard. "Her?"

"The rapist was a woman." Wally didn't seem fazed by this. Dick slowly moved his hands to his lap.

"Can that happen?" he said.

Wally balked. "Can what happen?"

"A...a woman raping a man." He flushed at how dumb it sounded out loud, but he was always fairly sure it couldn't happen. _Right?_ He did always think it was impossible...even _before_...right?

"Of course it can happen, what the hell are you talking about?" Wally slid off the desk and raised an eyebrow at Dick, frowning. "Sex without consent. He didn't give consent."

"But...I mean, he could've fought her off, couldn't he? And physically..."

"Physically what? And it doesn't matter if he could have fought her off, she could have stopped when he didn't give consent. Because that's what rapists do, they have sex without consent." Wally's voice was biting now, with an edge that made Dick feel stupid and a little hurt.

"Well, physically, he must have...liked it, right? That's how...how sex works...physically. It wouldn't have...worked, if he didn't want it. And he would have pushed her, or something, if he didn't want it," he defended weakly. "He's a guy, he's probably bigger than her."

"He was drunk, you asshat." Now Wally really was mad, glaring and balling his hands into fists, and Dick was tempted to give in and save himself the embarrassment. But it wasn't...it _couldn't_ be… "Hell, maybe he didn't want to hurt her. Do you have any idea how you sound right now? Saying he wanted to be raped? That's fucking...not even possible by definition, and it's victim-blaming. Are you serious? 'Cause if you're joking, it's not funny. You'd never say this if it was a woman or if the rapist was a man."

"No. And I'm not joking. It's...it's different..." Dick's mind felt sort of foggy. Like a math problem where something wasn't adding right, but he knew what the answer was, and now he didn't know where he had messed up.

"How? Dick, a guy has the right to consent as much as a woman - everyone does. That kid said no, and the woman had sex with him, so it was rape and that's not fucking okay."

With no warning, he felt like he was going to be sick. Arguing with Wally never made him feel this anxious, and talking about rape cases never brought him to the point of physical nausea. _What the hell was wrong with him?_ The room was too warm, and Wally's voice was too loud, and _god_ , he really felt like he was going to throw up.

He shook his head, hoping the feeling would pass if he kept telling himself it was irrational. "It's not rape."

Wally threw his hands up in exasperation, and _anger_ , which hurt again. "Fuck, how can you say that? What if happened to you, man?"

And Dick tried not to twitch, or blink, or breathe, or vomit, but he must have done one of those things - not vomiting, he hoped; his mouth didn't taste like it - because Wally suddenly backed up a step from the chair, eyes popping out as he sucked in a quiet breath. "Oh. _Oh_. Oh god, you...Dick-"

"It wasn't." He gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white, staring straight at the screensaver with blank eyes following the bouncing circle. "Shut up. Don't...don't talk about it. I don't want to. It wasn't."

"Dick, please." Wally's one-eighty to worried and soft made him even sicker and dizzier. That's not the kind of reaction he was supposed to get. Disgust or ridicule would feel much better - hell, downright dismissal would align with what he imagined and would feel infinitely more right than sympathy. He didn't deser- didn't _want_ sympathy. "Who hurt you? Or...when?"

This wasn't how Dick wanted to do this. He had planned it in his mind, during the long nights when he couldn't even close his eyes. He wanted to spill it as an offhand comment, while drinking with Jason and Roy or possibly even with Artemis and Wally, just so that he could get it out. So that someone would at least know. And if everyone was drunk, they wouldn't talk about it. They would laugh, maybe, and then he could put it to rest.

He never wanted to have this conversation sober.

"It doesn't matter," he said, steeling himself even though his insides felt like jelly. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. Or...mostly wrong, or I-I don't know. Just. That's not what happened. Okay?"

Wally sighed and sat on the desk again. "Have you ever told anyone about this? At all?"

"I don't exactly tell people about everyone I have sex with, do you?" he hissed. Damn her. Damn her for everything, damn him for still being screwed up about something so stupid, damn Wally for caring.

"It doesn't sound like-" Wally reached a hand to Dick's shoulder and he slapped it away without thinking.

"Don't _touch me_."

Damnit.

It wasn't that he couldn't be touched anymore, exactly. No one could take his most important sense away from him. But still, something had changed. Everyone was too close to him, always, setting off too many nerves and not giving him enough air. He wasn't scared. He wasn't. He just... _he couldn't fucking breathe._

"Okay, I won't." Wally drew back his hand. Dick wanted to scream. _Stop it! Tell me I'm being ridiculous!_ "Hey, calm down. It's okay. You're okay."

Right. Breathing was a thing. A thing that he was currently not doing.

"Wally." He raked a hand through his hair, as though he could keep his brain here instead of out of his body where it was trying to go. "I'm sorry about what I said. Okay? Please just go, we'll hang out another time."

"Whatever happened," Wally said carefully, and pointedly, "it scared you, and made you upset. You've never told anyone?"

"No. I said that." Dick swiveled his chair around under the heat of Wally's gaze, fingers pinching his inner forearms as he tried to feel like a human being. He was real. Alive. Right here. Not dissociating. Nopenopenope. Not today, not now, not with his best friend breathing down his neck...

 _Not because of her._

"You with me, Dick?" Wally sounded so, so far away.

"N'really." The vibrations in his throat were real. He had a body. He had five senses. All of which were betraying him, the smell of rain and the taste of smoke horribly mixed with the white room and his skin beneath his fingers, but they were there.

"Can I touch you? I just wanna squeeze your hand. Just me, okay?"

Dick nodded faintly, and felt heat and pressure on his hand. Good feelings. Concrete, tactile warmth. Safety. Wally. Touching him, his hand, his body which was his and not just a sack of skin draped over a chair. He breathed, slowly, and opened his eyes - which he didn't remember closing - to the office. Wally was kneeling in front of him, staring at him, worried, confused. Afraid. _Afraid for him? Of him?_ "'M poisonous," he muttered, the line between thinking and speaking too blurry to navigate.

"You're what?" To his credit, Wally was talking quietly.

"Poisonous," Dick repeated. "Don't...don't."

"Don't what, Dick? Dick. Dick, c'mon. Listen to me. Dick."

The repetition of his name solidified things a little, each syllable a reminder of who he was and that he existed. He knew _don't_ , but his name wasn't _don't_. _Dick_. Dick. Richard. Richard Grayson. Nightwing. Dick. Dick was at the Hall of Justice with Wally West. And Dick needed to write a case report. Needed to work. Get up. _Get out of the way. Move. Move on. Go on. Go. Go!_

 _stop stop stop stop it stopdon'tdon't-_

 _pleasedon't-_

 _stop it-_

 _don't-_

It was raining in the room, the chair beneath him was concrete rooftop and he dug his nails into his thighs, wishing desperately to make it all _stop_.

"Are you okay, Dick?"

"I don't know." It was true. His sight blinked between Wally and _him_ , his hands looked bloody but he knew they weren't- knew they _were_. Because he just killed... _she_ just killed...and now- _her breath was warm he was cold_ \- her hands- the zipper on his suit- his hair was wet- _wasn't_ wet- he said no- _didn't say anything_ \- let her do it- _he let her do it_ - _he said **no**_ -

"-you're safe...no one can hurt you here...it's over. It's all over."

 _"He can't hurt us anymore, baby, it's over. It's all over..."_

He threw up on her, trembling, _rain_ \- sweat- _tears_ sliding down his cheeks.

"Oookay. Okay, buddy, that's fine." _Wally's_ fingertips rested on his forearm, just barely touching him. "Just calm down. I'm right here."

Dick was too exhausted to untwist realities. He needed to pinch himself, see if this was a dream or if that was a nightmare, but his skin felt artificial.

"Here, let's..." A soft, square- _not bony and slender_ \- hand took his fist and held it to a chest- _strong, flat_ \- unfurling each quaking finger- _carefully_ \- and splaying it against the cotton- _not spandex_ \- of a sweatshirt. A heartbeat. Steady, quick against his palm. "...just like that. Good. Good job. Keep breathing."

"'M...sorry..."

"Shh. Can you feel my heart there?"

"Mmhm."

"Good. Just like when we were little, right? When things were scary? I needed to talk through it with you and you needed to feel my heartbeat. Just like this."

Dick nodded at the memories. They were clear. Not disjointed, or too sharp. Details faded like they were supposed to be in memories. Firmly in the past.

"You know where we are?" Wally loosened his grip on Dick's wrist, rubbing his thumb over the back of his clammy hand.

"Hall'f...justice...'m okay, Wall..." Dick worked around his weak voice.

"If you say so. Let's get you cleaned up."

He looked down at himself. Besides not quite being a real person, or at least not feeling like it, he was a mess of sweat and- _oh_. He got sick, not on her, on himself. And Wally.

"Dick?"

"Yeah." He gingerly pulled himself to his feet, testing his shaking legs. They seemed to hold up, despite the black spots in the corners of his vision. Dimly, he registered Wally's hand on his back, which was _tooclose_ , but he kept his mouth shut.

In the bathroom, Wally let go of him and backed up. "I'm gonna go put on a clean shirt and get you a change of clothes, okay?"

Dick nodded, attention now focused on the mirror as Wally ran off. The form in the reflection was him, he supposed. Sick and scared and worn. Frozen just as gross as he had been that night. It was the kind of grossness you can't shower off - he had tried. And tried. And tried.

His blood- her lipstick- it never washed away.

"Are you still feeling sick?" Wally was back, changed, with a washcloth and a bundle of clothes. He turned the faucet on and soaked the cloth with cool water in the time it took Dick to flinch at his voice in his ear. The speed was overwhelming, for the first time since he met his best friend. He sort of felt like crying.

But he didn't feel sick anymore, so he shook his head, staring himself down in the mirror. Maybe the disturbingly _other_ Dick would go away if he kept eye contact. He didn't want to be _that_ Dick, whoever he was. He was ugly, sickly, fragile. That wasn't _him_ , damnit, it was a shadow. _He_ had moved on. He was better. He got _better_. This shit _wasn't supposed to be happening to him_ because he _got better_ -

"I know this is probably the last thing you want to do, but we gotta get you out of this shirt." Wally looked at him through the mirror, once removed from the conversation, from him. Dick didn't respond, swallowing as he felt the nausea return.

"Ah...we'll wash your face first." Wally hesitated, then leaned around, blocking his _grossuglybad_ reflection, and lightly touched the cloth to his face. "Too cold?" He shook his head again.

It felt safe, in a way, having Wally wipe around his mouth and across his flushed cheeks. Sort of like a child, getting dirt and crumbs wiped off his face. He could almost feel those lipstick-blood-stain tattoos fading. Almost.

"So...do you wanna talk about it?" Wally held the cloth on his forehead for a few seconds, and the offer was tempting. Maybe he could get some of the tension out. All he had to do was explain what happened calmly and clearly. That's all.

"I-I said don't."

 _Nice_.

"Okay, we don't have to." Wally took the cloth from his face and he nearly cried for it back.

"No, I mean- I said...I tried to...tell her not to- to kill him."

Wally nodded slowly, rinsing out the cloth in the sink. "You told her not to kill who?"

"Blockbuster."

"The guy who had it out for you a few months back?"

"I didn't wanna kill him!" But some part of him did You don't _let_ things happen to you unless you _want_ them. And he could have stopped it- could have stopped _all_ of this-

"Shh, I believe you. Who killed him?" Wally re-soaked the cloth and swiped it along his hairline, where sweat was gathering again. Blockbuster's blood was slick on his fingers.

"I did."

"Mm. Where'd you shoot him?"

"I...didn't." It felt good, so, so good to say it, but it wasn't _right_ , he was taught to own up to his mistakes- his crimes. His _kills_. Oh _god_ -

"That's what I thought. You're not a killer, man. That just doesn't make sense. Right?"

Dick blinked. "I...Batman would've-"

"Nope. Absolutely not. We're talking about you. The woman you were working with shot him, right?" Dick nodded without thinking. He was right, but...

But he let it happen.

 _Let her kill Blockbuster let her fuck him let her **ruin** him-_

"And what happened after that?" Wally dabbed under his eyes with the cloth, a tacit but clear signal that he could cry, that Wally wouldn't even notice if he did.

"She- I couldn't breathe."

"Panic attack?"

"I couldn't- I couldn't fight, Wally, you _have_ to believe me, I was so...s-so tired, and _scared_ , a-and I told her _Itoldher_ don't touch me- I-I...Wally, I didn't _want_ her to-"

He lurched away from Wally's worried arms, thankfully making it to the toilet before he threw up again. His throat burned, his head was splitting, his skin was crawling. Everything felt wrong.

"Okay," Wally was murmuring, seeming hesitant to touch him as he flushed the toilet and did...something at the sink. Dick whined uselessly, forehead to the side of the toilet in a feeble attempt to cool his body. "Okay. Take your time, buddy."

It could have been hours or seconds before he finally sat up and noticed the cup of water on the counter above him. He gulped it down and then looked at Wally, now sitting opposite him on the floor, cross-legged.

"So that was a trauma response," Wally said, holding a finger up when Dick tried to protest. "I'm not stupid, and I know what it looks like. I also know that it wasn't what happened with Blockbuster that traumatized you; it's what happened after."

It couldn't happen. It _can't_ happen. It didn't happen. What happened to him...to that kid... _to **him** , fuck_ \- wasn't...it _wasn't_...

"Dick, what happened that night?" Wally looked like he was aching to touch him, and honestly, Dick was aching to be touched too. But that would set off an explosion. He knew it, and he hated it.

Why, after everything, was _this_ his breaking point?

Wally was opening his mouth to prompt him again when Dick exhaled and bit the words out. "I...was...I had sex with her."

"Dick."

He wanted to scream a lot of things. I'm _notavictim_ _notacoward_ not a fucking tragedy _this didn't happen to me this never happened to me this is **nothappeningtome** -_

"It's okay." Wally brought him back down from another panic. "It's okay, Dick."

"She raped me." Dick let the sentence fall from his lips like swallowing a pill, quick and painful, leaving a lump in his throat. His whole body shook from the release of tension in his muscles, in his brain, in his heart. He almost felt lightheaded. But something...some tightness in his chest was subsiding. _Acceptance_ , he recognized vaguely. That was supposed to be the first step. Even if he'd run away from the stairs and off a cliff first.

"I'm really sorry," Wally whispered after waiting a beat for Dick to start breathing again. "You didn't deserve that. And it wasn't your fault."

Dick's eyes went misty as he nodded, not realizing until then how _damn-fucking badly_ he needed to hear that. That he didn't deserve it, that it wasn't a punishment for being a... _not_ -murderer, that he didn't have to hold the blame on his shoulders…

"I...feel stupid being like this," he rasped, laughing a little. Although, his cheeks felt wet so maybe he wasn't quite laughing. "I...I like sex. I like touching."

"She took something that's special to you and used it in a sick, perverted way to hurt you. That's bound to mess you up, man." Wally's eyes softened, and it made Dick feel a sort of warm glow in the pit of his stomach, because no one was laughing or yelling or angry or even vengeful on his behalf. Wally didn't even ask for Tarantula's name, like _Dick_ was the only one that mattered in the situation. Like this was important, what happened to him was important, how he felt about it was important. His family, as deeply as he loved them, would be interrogating for details, calling for _proof_ and _evidence_ and then hunting down Catalina before he even finished the story. Wally...was staying. It made all the difference from the worst-case scenarios he imagined when he thought about telling someone. "You're allowed to be a victim."

"I don't wanna be." Fuck, he sounded _five_.

"You shouldn't have to be. But you are. And that doesn't make you any less of a person."

That would take some time to get through his head; they both knew it. But...the idea of letting himself hurt was nice, and the idea of letting someone help him stop hurting was nicer. Hell, he already felt better.

"Thank you," he said, honestly, resting his chin on his knee. Better, but worn out. "I'm sorry I threw up on you."

Wally grinned. "S'all cool. It's not the first time. You used to get sick every time I ran you somewhere."

Dick cracked a small smile. "I'd, ah...I'd hug you, but..." _But I can't. Not yet._

"I know." Wally patted his knee lightly, then stood up. "You just let me know when you're ready and we'll have a good manly snuggle. Now I'll make you a deal; if you change into clean clothes I'll go get you ginger ale and Ritz crackers. Should settle your stomach."

Sick foods sounded perfect. Dick nodded, barely even on his feet by the time Wally had _fwooshed_ out and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Unable to resist the temptation, he watched himself in the mirror as he pulled off his ruined shirt and jeans. He could still sort of imagine handprints - he forgot how to breathe for a split second - and blood - he choked - but then he saw the scar on his collarbone from when he fell off Wally's roof, and the birthmark on his hip that Bruce always checked when he was paranoid, and he felt a little okay again. It was him in there. Just a little worse for wear. And that was okay.

The Flash hoodie Wally had brought for him was much too big, so his hands were covered by the sleeves, and it was soft inside like a fluffy blanket, and it smelled like apples and coconut shampoo - like Wally.

It felt like a hug all on its own.


End file.
